


More Cowbell, Please

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Mild PTSD?, Minor Injuries, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, STRIFE!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There. A breath, a shift of a foot, and you’re both off, flashing around each other, and the first bite of steel on steel rings through the air and the sound of it makes you trip over your own two feet and tumble back, nearly falling.</p><p>“I guess I’m a little rusty,” you say; he just stares at you, like he can see right through you, like he knows every single thing you’re thinking and it’s so much like Bro that you almost throw out your fist and punch him. But you’re good. You can handle a little sword fighting. You’re okay.</p><p>[No you aren't.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Cowbell, Please

**Author's Note:**

> the sound drowns out the other shit.

He wants to strife with you.

 

Of course he fucking does- here he finally has someone else who’s been through the same rigorous training as him, someone on his level, someone who understands that a strife, to him, is more than just a play fight,  more than just a simple clash of swords- but that doesn’t make you feel any better about it. You aren’t a coward, no, but you can’t help the way your hands shake as you hold your sword out in front of you, waiting for the hint, the change in the air that signals the beginning of a fight.

 

There. A breath, a shift of a foot, and you’re both off, flashing around each other, and the first bite of steel on steel rings through the air and the sound of it makes you trip over your own two feet and tumble back, nearly falling.

 

“I guess I’m a little rusty,” you say; he just stares at you, like he can see right through you, like he knows every single thing you’re thinking and it’s so much like Bro that you almost throw out your fist and punch him. But you’re good. You can handle a little sword fighting. You’re okay.

 

It’s just a strife.

 

_It’s just a strife, man the fuck up, what the hell are you doin’ sittin’ on the fuckin’ ground like a pussy, don’t you dare cry now-_

You gasp for breath and swing your sword and it clangs against his and god you fucking hate that sound _you hate it so much_ -

 

You hate strifing.

 

It’s the truth, it’s true, you hate it with a passion, you hate everything about it and you hated fighting Bro the most and he looks just like Bro except silent- Bro was never silent unless you were about to get jumped, or doing something wrong. Never ever. Always he taunted you, he cajoled, he teased and commented on your form and laid into you for this and that but never this unnerving silence unless he was mad, and him being mad spelled out nothing good for you.

 

And Dirk? He looks like Bro, but he never speaks, and his not-speaking just means that you can hear the clear bite of steel against steel even better. And that drives you nuts.

 

You’re a trembling mess but you manage to fend him off. You do well, you think. You get the feeling that he’s pulling his blows in a way that Bro never did and that thought makes you _burn_ because that means he must think you're weak, but god knows you sure aren’t pulling yours- you think that surprises him a bit, early on, when he catches a sideswipe meant for his throat on his blade and the force of it jars his hand to the side and it  _clangs so loud-_

 

_How the fuck is trainin’ gonna be effective if I pussyfoot around this crap? You either learn right or you lose some fingers, now think fast ya li’l shit-_

Your sword smashes against his and his curves under yours and it’s a dance, intricate and seamless and perfect in form and technique. But Bro taught you to fight dirty, and you do, darting under his guard to direct your blade at his ribs and he’s just a step too fast for you, and instead of your blade piercing his ribs, his catches you on the arm.

 

_Get the fuck up, it’s just a li’l cut. Don’t you dare fuckin’ cry over a li’l blood, brat, get up, we ain’t done yet, you think an opponent is gonna stop while you’re sittin around sheddin’ tears over a tiny ass cut like that-_

You think he says something. His voice sounds tinny in your ears, far away, but all you can hear is _sword against sword against sword_ loud and sharp and you can’t be assed to pay attention to his words- you come up swinging, and he talks at you more but his voice just blends into Bro’s voice and you hear him in your head over and over- _it’s just a little blood, just a little fucking blood it’s nothing to get upset over just a little fucking blood-_

 

You hate blood.

 

Everything sort of jitters and shakes as you move and you think that’s a bad thing but you’re too focused on gasping for breath as you stare at him, poised to strike, except he’s not moving. Did you knock his sword from his hands already? It’s on the ground by his feet and he has his hands raised and he’s talking to you-

 

“- It’s okay. Hey. Hey, look at me, there you go- c’mon, Dave. Look, I put the sword down. See?”

 

Your own drops, little by little. It falls to your side, and you stare at him, at his hands, at the blood spattered across the ground and you feel like retching but you overcame that instinct a long time ago. The first time you threw up after seeing blood was the last, and you’d never repeated that mistake again.

 

“-Shhh. Dave? Dave, look at me. C’mon, bro, look up at me- that’s it, there we go, just like that-”

 

His shades are missing. Are your own still in place? Doesn’t he know he has to keep that shit on? You can’t just- you can’t just take off your fucking shades, not anywhere. It’s not safe. You reach up, touch your face, look down- your arm is a tattered mess, and fuck, you hadn’t thought it had been that bad you hadn’t even felt it-

 

“-No, at me- Shit, you aren’t making this easy are you. Dave- Dave!”

 

You jerk up and he holds out his hands again. It’s only then that you notice his shout had put you into guard position again. You drop your sword, then, and stand with your shoulders raised, gasping, one hand cupped over the bloody mess of your arm. It’ll heal in a few minutes- you’re God Tier. You're God Tier, Bro's dead and gone, and the man standing in front of you is only a teenager, just like you, young and worried and unable to see into your head and your soul. He's just Dirk. 

 

“Good, that’s great. There we go- just keep looking at me, okay? Can you hear me?”

 

It’s… more difficult than it should be, to nod. You don’t think something that seems so easy should be so hard, but it is, and you just begin to notice how hard you’re shaking, teeth chattering with the force of it. Dirk takes a slow step towards you, then another, then another, but he’s talking the whole time and his odd americanized generic accent is enough to throw you off, to remind you that this isn’t Bro- this is Dirk, he’s different, he’s a whole other ball game.

 

His hands touch your sides and you jerk, but he doesn’t let go- he just moves with you, keeps his grip light, talks to you like you used to talk to spooked crows that would flee to your room after mishaps with Bro on the roof- soft and gentle and calming, the tone more important than the content.

 

“It’s okay,” he says, and you nod stupidly, starting to relax despite yourself, “It’s okay. Breathe- can you do that, Dave? In and out?”

 

Of course you can fucking breathe- you’re an expert at breathing, except when you die, you guess, which tends to happen way more than it should. Either way, you breathe, in and out, in and out, and that just calms you more, soothing you down from the adrenaline rush of strife, the trembly-nervous-edginess fading from your system as the fight-or-flight chemicals disperse.

 

“...I, uh. Wow, that was pretty fucking uncool, wasn’t it.”

 

Dirk just stares at you in the way you’ve learned means something along the lines of ‘ _you’re a fucking idiot_ ’; you duck your head a bit and he just reaches up to tap your chin, making you face him again.

 

“It’s okay,” he says, suddenly, quirking his head to the side a bit, “...if it scares you. We don’t have to strife. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

 

He has such a precise way of speaking. It sort of pisses you off.

 

“I’m not scared.”

 

He stares at you. You want to hide under something, like a nice big rock, maybe a log, something surrounded by dirt and trash so you totally blend in, maybe-

 

“I can feel you shaking. You blanked out as soon as I cut you. You didn’t hear me, you hardly saw me- you were entirely focused on eliminating the threat. If you don’t want to strife, if it makes you upset, if you get scared, that’s okay. I’m fine just chilling with you, Dave. We don’t have to fight.”

 

You're not sure why those five words are enough to break you, but they do. 

 

It’s like you deflate, your entire body folding inwards; you’re a fucking star, reaching your Chandrasekhar limit and collapsing in on yourself in the biggest implosion this side of the Milky Way, and he’s the catalyst. You fall against him and shake, so many thoughts and feelings rattling around in your brain that you can't even keep track of them all, years and years and years worth, and he just wraps his arms around you and supports you in a way you don’t think you’ve ever been supported before- emotionally and physically.

 

“...I don’t like fighting,” you choke out; he just nods, one hand- teenage, awkward, nothing like Bro and his broad hands and careless strength- cupping the back of your neck and cradling your head to the crook of his shoulder. He’s just tall enough for you to rest your head against his shoulder and you hide your face there, shaking, shaking, shaking.

 

“I- I don’t like that sound, that fucking _sound_ -”

 

You ramble, you rant, you think at one point you might have started crying about the clang of metal on metal and the slosh of blood and the sharp edged pain and his _laugh_ but far be it from you to admit it. Everything sort of feels distant but he keeps you grounded, he keeps you steady and holds you close and when you’re spent, he guides you inside and patches up your arm and helps you change your shirt without a word.

 

His silence… is different from Bro’s, you think. Less mocking, less angry. His hands touch you gentler, his voice hits your ears softer, there’s no fear when he’s by you. It hurts, deep in your chest, because you think _could I have had this? What did I do to make Bro the way he was? What could I have done?_ and Rose told you those thoughts were bad and dumb and should be discarded but it’s hard. You’re working on it.

 

It’s a process, but you think him and his soft touch and softer voice and comfortable silence might be helping, the slightest bit.

 

“...It’s okay,” he murmurs, and his voice transitions so seamlessly from silence to speech that you hardly notice, one of his arms settling heavily around your shoulders, hugging you to his side, “How about we play checkers next time instead, huh?”

 

And you laugh and laugh and laugh and tuck your head against his shoulder, and think that even if one bro was sort of shitty, at least you found another that’s not so bad.

 

 


End file.
